Belonging: A Companion is Born
by S.J.Mooney
Summary: No one had ever seen Companions as young as them. But the title 'Companion' is earned, even for those raised within their ranks. To become one, brothers Farkas and Vilkas must face their fears and take up arms. From the Great War through the return of the dragons, their story is not easy. Through sweat, blood, and the fires of battle, a pair of Skyrim's noblest Companions are born.
1. Author's Notes

Please note, this story is not Dovahkiin centric (thank goodness, I know). All characters are **© Bethesda, **but the storyline and any characters I create (who I will identify and claim in their debut chapter) are entirely mine. As new facts come out the story will be modified so that it closely follows fact and stays true to canon.

This story assumes that Jergen is not the father of Farkas and Vilkas, due largely to comments made by the in-game characters and content from the Skyrim Guide Book.

As with a large variety of fan fiction, this story WILL CONTAIN SPOILERS. Chapters with spoilers will contain a large header notifying readers ahead of time.

And thank you, reader, for taking an interest in my work!


	2. Prologue

A/N: Light Spoilers for Companions questline in this chapter.

_3rd of Last Seed, 4E 202_

The enormous fire pit at the heart of Jorrvaskr burned low as the night wore on, signaling the end of the feasting and the silencing of drinking songs. One by one, the warriors of the Companions bade farewell and hunkered down for bed. All, that is, save two.

"Vilkas," the Dragonborn spoke suddenly, breaking the deathly silence that had saturated the room. "Its late. You haven't slept."

The other man said nothing, his icy gaze locked on the last pathetic tendrils of flame clawing over the massive coal-bed. The Dragonborn took a few steps towards the stairs leading underground, to the living quarters - to bed. But still, Vilkas did not stir.

"Something troubles you," the Dragonborn stated after a moment of observance.

"...Aye," Vilkas finally replied, ripping his eyes from the fire with noticeable effort. "Though its of a more personal matter, Harbinger. Not something I would trouble yourself over."

The Dragonborn's brow furrowed, and she reached for a chair beside her Shield-Sibling. "You must think me a fool."

The confused look that surfaced upon Vilkas's face was one she had more often seen on Farkas.

"Only a fool would ignore the suffering of one directly before her eyes," the Dragonborn explained flatly. "I need you at your best, Vilkas. No distractions. And... as a friend, I want to see you overcome whatever troubles your mind."

Vilkas quietly observed the woman beside him. Although it had been mere months since her arrival, she had made waves enough for a thousand tides in her short time in Whiterun. He remembered his own reluctance to allow the wandering warrior into their company, and the welts under his armor from the power of her blows as he tested her mettle (a secret which, Harbinger or not, she would never discover). He remembered her struggle for acceptance, doing job after job until finally she was one of them: a member of the Circle; a leader of the Companions. And, he remembered Ysgramor's tomb.

Vilkas swallowed. Hard. He formed the beginnings of a sentence on his lips, but stopped suddenly, as if to fully digest the words. After a moment, the wall into the sturdy Nord's mind finally seemed to break. "My thoughts of late often wander to Kodlak," he admitted, frowning.

"As do my own," his Shield-Sister sympathized. She fought to meet his gaze once more, though the struggle was futile. "What about him?"

"I think he may have been right. About the beastblood, I mean." He paused. "And about Sovngarde."

The Dragonborn shifted slightly in her seat as a wave of understanding passed over her. "Sovngarde," she repeated, willing him to continue.

"I wish for a different fate for my brother and I than to become slaves to a Daedric lord."

"You seek a cure."

Now Vilkas did look at her. "Yes," he replied stoutly, allowing his body to shudder and relax as he sighed. "I'm finally ready."

"I would be honored to assist you, Vilkas." The Dragonborn saw the slightest glimmer of hope beneath his frosty exterior. But then, a thought crossed her mind.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course, Harbinger. What is it?"

Harbinger. Dragonborn. Thane. She wished, for once, someone would call her by name. "How long have you been a werewolf?"

The question, she knew, was a raw thumb and she was not unprepared to see surprise work into the faint creases of a face aging far too early.

"It's been... years," he said, as though he weren't exactly sure himself. He squinted his eyes, searching through the remnants of his past when the smallest smile sprouted from the darkness. "It was Kodlak who turned us. I was only fourteen when he became Harbinger, but that was nearly twenty years ago."

"That long?" the Dragonborn asked, amazed.

"By the gods, no," Vilkas laughed. "Eorlund may be the only one fond of telling such stories, but Farkas and I were whelplings once, too. It would be a few years before we were initiated into the Circle."

"Were you Companions then? What about Skjor? Aela? Did you know about the beastblood? And what of Kodlak?" The Dragonborn suddenly found her tongue running faster than she could speak. She was reminded of the old saying, 'Curiosity slew the Khajiit,' but the questions were incessant.

Vilkas' usual scowl returned, but it was not unfriendly. "Why does any of that matter to you? Each of us has a past, and that's where it should be left."

"And that's where it will be left," the Dragonborn promised, "after you answer my question - fully detailed." She smirked as he threw her a look of mild indignation, but there was no hiding the acceptance - albeit grudging- under the many layers of war paint.

"You want the story from the beginning? Fine." Vilkas stood up to fill his flagon with mead one last time. The Dragonborn waited patiently as he took a few sips, pondering just how to begin.

"As I've said before, Farkas and I were brought to Jorrvaskr by Jergen..."

_Thank you for reading! This little fic is something I'm writing on the side, when I feel stumped on my main (100% original) book. So, if you enjoyed what you've read here I would ask you give me a shot. And maybe leave a comment, or something. Feedback is always welcome. Just be polite. Flaming is bad, m'kay?_


	3. Chapter 1

(Eredan (c) Me.  
Spoilers: mention of secret door found in The Man Who Cried Wolf, but nothing too serious)

10th of Sun's Dusk 4E 171

There was something unique about the smell of a necromancer's lair. There was the obvious stink of death: the air was bitter, still, and very, very cold. But this smell went beyond death, beyond rot. Perhaps it was the result of the alchemical solutions these wizards seemed so fond of, or maybe it was merely his nose overreacting, but Jergen could always smell the same aroma every time he dealt with one of their trade. The sweetness of it made him want to vomit.

"This way," he huffed, mouth open as he avoided breathing through his sensitive nose.

The soft footfalls of his Shield-Brother behind him told Jergen that Eredan was close behind. Scattered oil lanterns provided some light as they descended further into Wolfskull Cave, careful not to slip on the loose gravel crunching quietly beneath their boots with every step. The occupants had strung bone-chimes from the ceiling alongside old, rusting chains and the pair had to work carefully to avoid setting of the series of noisy traps.

They had followed this trail for several minutes when suddenly, Jergen put out a hand. He felt Eredan come to a stop at his touch and whispered, "There, a door!" Just around the bend, an enormous wooden door stood boldly despite its age, guarded on either side by two wide-mouthed braziers. To the left, a small inlet in the rock cradled another fire, surrounded by a messy, rag-tag assortment of log benches and empty wine bottles. The muffled ring of voices echoed up from below.

"You should not have turned down my advances, Runa," a man said, laughing darkly.

"Enough of this, Amund!" another man growled. "This ritual is more important than your disgusting habits. We only have two more live ones, and I will _not_ fail because of _you_!"

The necromancers continued bickering long enough for Jergen and Eredan to inch closer - they were just around the corner now, ready to pounce. Jergen felt his muscles tighten, ready to launch his body into battle. His heart drummed war in his ears and he could taste the excitement on his tongue. Slowly, he drew his greatsword with a faint metallic ring.

Suddenly the necromancers stopped. "What was that?" the older, unnamed man hissed. There came a quick clang and a flash of light - protection spells. This bothered the Companions little.

"RRRAAAHH!" Jergen roared, charging forward with an inhuman burst of speed. The sound reverberated through the cave, magnifying his battle cry from one man into an army.

The two necromancers recoiled, shouting in fear and surprise as they hid behind five unnatural bodyguards. The woman, whom Jergen could only assume to be Runa, climbed over another body as a purple magic wove her long-dead corpse like a puppeteer's strings. Her hairline was bloody and a large portion of her scalp was missing, and as she picked up an axe and lunged forward, Jergen caught the scent of old rot on her trail. No scream issued from her throat as he ran her through with a quick thrust of his sword - only gurgling and choking as dark, black blood erupted from her mouth in a fountain.

Jergen glanced down at her gut, drawn by a strange, skin-crawling sight: she was… dissolving. From where his sword pierced her gut, it seemed a fire had begun to spread through her insides consuming her flesh from the inside. Soon, what had once been a body had become nothing more than ash.

Now for the others. Jergen pivoted about, in time to see Eredan break the nose of one of the undead with the heavy thwack of his iron shield. The elf finished the stunned creature by swift decapitation. Skyforge Steel cut through flesh like butter.

"You won't escape here alive!" the older necromancer shouted, his palms alight with magicka. The air inside the cave began to swirl, becoming a cyclone in a matter of seconds as his spell came to fruition. An enormous purple cloud exploded into the air, encased by a cloak of pale lightning and from within its mysterious depths a gigantic limb of ice stepped out.

"Frost Atronach!" Eredan screamed, though his voice was nearly lost to the noise around them.

Jergen charged forward with another roar, hoping to take the creature before it could make its move. He leapt from the earthen floor and into the air, his sword held over his head - but the huge daedra swung one of its massive arms and repelled the Companion back onto the cave wall with a resound SLAP . Stunned, the Nord watched his vision swirl - the black-robed mages dashing back and forth, the enormous blue-white mass of ice that shook the ground with each step closer, and a pale, blond face that suddenly thrust its way to the forefront of his attention.

"Jergen!" Eredan was wide-eyed, and his voice carried the tiniest sliver of fear. But, there was something more. "Jergen, I have an idea - are you alright?"

"Don't just stand th- Get out of the way, pup!" Jergen pushed the elf aside, hard. The atronach's spear-pointed limb jetted from the ground like a stake where his feet had been seconds before.

With what little wit he had regained, Jergen clawed his way under the daedra's legs as it struggled to free its arm from the depths of the earth. There was little time to spare, and three more corpses to defeat. Meeting his Shield-Brother's eyes, Jergen nodded. 'This should be simple.'

The atronach roared in anger from behind them as the two bolted forward, Eredan to the left and Jergen to the right. The remaining dead had gathered together, forming a human wall between them and their cowardly masters. The first, an old man, was tall and extremely muscular for his age. A blacksmith, maybe, but his strength did little good as Eredan ducked under the swing of his war hammer to sever his calves in a quick swoop. As the old man's body hit the ground it was followed by Eredan's sword like a striking hawk, piercing his breastbone which quickly melted away into ashes.

The second man, a young Breton, held a small sun as he cast fireballs from his fists as Jergen approached. Although the flames came close, they missed their mark - until finally, the lad turned away to snatch a dagger from his satchel, and was swiftly beheaded.

The third and final man wore a rough set if iron armor. The rust and obvious repair marks were evidence that the owner of this armor had been a warrior before his death, and even now, his body held the greatsword in his hands with some semblance of skill. The clang of steel on steel rang through the cave as Jergen came at him.

"Finally," he spat, "someone that knows to block!" A fierce laugh escaped his throat as he swung his sword around and again his blow was blocked. Jergen sent his opponent a swift kick to the chest, and heard the old armor crack - and as the warrior staggered, he caught sight of the defect. Near the underarm, an old rust patch had finally given in and crumbled, leaving a gaping hole in the left side of the armor.

"Now, Eredan!"

A sharp whistling pierced through the ambient noise and suddenly the warrior lie dead, once more - the victim of an arrow through the lungs.

With a bone-chilling screech, the atronach finally pulled itself free. It turned towards them, stomping on the ground and causing the earth under their feet to tremble with fear. As the warrior crumbled into an ashen heap, the Companions turned to face their next opponent with their weapons at the ready. Jergen, knuckles white, held his greatsword like an animal ready to pounce. But Eredan had sheathed his own blade, opting for flames as his hands were wreathed in orange light. The two parties stared at one another from across the cave, each sizing the other up.

"So, what was this idea of yours?" Jergen whispered, his eyes locked onto the icy creature ahead.

"We attack the head," Eredan replied quickly. "Its limbs will likely regrow - they heal themselves. Attack it from a distance."

"Sheogorath take you, boy! I don't think arrows will even scr-!"

The atronach charged forward with a screeching roar, smashing at the ground and sending ice spikes surging from the earth in all directions. The effect was wild, sending the pair dancing like madmen to escape the spears sprouting inches from their boots. Eredan quickly cast a bombardment of fireballs, and the atronach seemed to halt and writhe in pain as its icy flesh was melted - but just as quickly, its rock-hard shell reformed into a solid sheet once more.

"The head!" Jergen howled, ducking under another thunderous blow. "I'll distract him! Get the head!" Eredan nodded, apparently oblivious to the blood pouring from a sizable slice above his brow. Jergen had to admit: for a magic-wielding elf, the boy had talent.

Jergen swung his sword wildly, but found it like striking rock: even Eorlund Gray-Mane's steel could not cut through the sheer girth of this monster. He dashed about the daedra's tree-truck legs, hacking fruitlessly in the hopes of keeping it busy long enough for Eredan to make his move.

The quick-footed Bosmer ducked in and around debris littering the cavern floor with the grace of an assassin. He shot another volley of fireballs and the atronach suddenly fell onto one frigid knee, half of its face blasted away by the inferno. Jergen saw his opportunity. With a bloodcurdling battle cry, he hurled himself into the air and thrust his sword through the reforming remains of the creature's skull like a spear. The atronach shuddered, snapping its half-head back so suddenly the Nord feared his deathblow had failed - but then, it issued a strange, mourning cry that sounded like the whistling of the arctic winds, before collapsing into a great heap on the floor of the cavern.

"Jergen!" Eredan snatched the Nord by the arm, jerking him away from the dead atronach as it suddenly exploded into a blizzard of tiny ice spears. A deathly silence followed, broken only by the small crackling flame at the edge of the room that remained astonishingly undisturbed.

It hurt to breathe Jergen realized suddenly, wrapping an arm gingerly around his midsection. He couldn't feel anything through his dented armor, but there was obviously a broken rib or two to go with the bruises. Jergen clenched his teeth against the pain, a fierce, beastly anger rising up from within. Of course, it was not a normal occurrence to be tossed about like a rag doll by a monstrous ice being. Perhaps he should consider himself lucky it wasn't something more?

"Where are the necromancers?" The Nord spat suddenly, wheeling about. Like cold steel, a realization struck: the door! Ripping his sword from the remains of the atronach's skull, Jergen charged the door, bursting through the thick timbers with barbaric strength. But the sight on the other side would plague his thoughts forever.

The door opened to a chamber illuminated by a ghostly pillar of moonlight. They were strewn into a sloppy, disorganized heap on the floor - there must have been at least a dozen. Arms and legs bent this way and that - eyes wide, toothless mouths agape and the old, black blood shining like dark pools in the ring of light - and, by the Nine, the stench was unbearable! Jergen could hear his Shield-Sibling retching from behind.

"Cowards!" he bellowed, wrenching his eyes from the horrid sight to search for the guilty party. "Where are you!?"

Only silence answered.

The necromancers were gone. How they had managed to escape, Jergen didn't know. He didn't care. Faced now with the true depth of their crimes, the rotten taste of that defeat - and it was a defeat - was magnified tenfold. All these innocent lives - what foul purpose warranted such loathsome deeds? With a savage roar, Jergen thrust is sword into the earth and wandered up and down the length of the hollow looking for any sign of where the mages had gone. How? How could this be? There was no opening, no door, and no crack in the faces of any of the walls - and yet they had disappeared. He would have seen them run for the entrance of the cave - he would have seen them! And he could smell it - fresh air, coming from somewhere. It taunted him.

Eredan watched helplessly from the sidelines as Jergen searched the chamber up and down. But, it was hopeless, he knew. The necromancers would be long gone by now. "Jergen," he said, his tone matching the dark look in his eye, "it's over."

Jergen locked eyes with the Bosmer for a split second as he wrestled with the inner drive to send him to Aetherius. Instead, he lashed out furiously at whatever unfortunate objects were close enough to destroy. Bits of smashed crates were sent flying; glass shattered on the dark stone walls; an alchemy lab was sent tumbling, exposing -

Faces. Jergen jerked to a stop, forced to do a double-take. There were two of them: young boys, hardly out of the womb but not yet old enough to pick up a blade. The little Nords were twins, he realized. Their identical eyes stared up at him from a tiny alcove he had exposed, fear tainting their expressions like a black smear on a pure canvas.

Jergen found his mind suddenly blank. The anger that had consumed his thoughts had been blown back as he stared at the teary-eyed children trembling at his feet. _Survivors!_ And they had been through hell, by the looks of it. Their faces were smeared with dirt, their dark hair unkempt and wildly overgrown. Their pale limbs were checkered with scabs both fresh and old, and the deep shadows under their eyes spoke of a hunger no man should ever have to experience. The vestiges of the clothing covering their bodies were tattered and filthy, no more than rags. They were certainly not enough to keep the chill of the northern winds at bay.

But they were alive.

"Eredan!" Jergen called, but the elf was already fast approaching, a hand stuffed into his satchel as he ran. The frightened boys recoiled, each embracing the other as if expecting the end, full tears now tracing fiery pink trails down their muddy cheeks. But when nothing happened, they slowly reopened their eyes to the strangers kneeling down, patiently holding out a water-skin bursting at the seams with liquid.

The children eyed them suspiciously, too afraid to move. Jergen sighed, removing his helmet and slowly holding that out, too. He didn't know if they would understand him, or if they could even speak. But, it seemed his gesture was well received when one of them eagerly snatched the helmet and placed it on his head - though, it fell well past his chin, and he had to hold it awkwardly in place just to see. The other twin observed the Companions for another minute, before seizing the water-skin and taking the first mouthful so fast that most of it ran down his chin. The boy stopped after a few massive gulps and handed the rest to his brother.

"What do we do with them?" Eredan asked, and suddenly the weight of their discovery was pressing down on the Nord's shoulders.

"We take them with us," he replied. What else was there to do with them? Whatever would become of them afterwards was not important. As long as they were safe, as long as there were survivors, there was still a chance to catch those necromancers.

After receiving the water, the two boys seemed much less reluctant and quickly accepted the Companion's open palms. Each carried one of the children, back through the mouth of the cave and into the blinding sun where their horses stood waiting.

"We'll have to take them back to Whiterun," Jergen stated through a hard grimace, cringing painfully as he mounted his dark brown steed. "To the Temple of Kynareth."


End file.
